


Poetry in Motion

by Nebulad



Series: Blood Mages & Other Horrors [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 17:48:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6714874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nebulad/pseuds/Nebulad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris grunted in response, lifting a bottle to his mouth. It was something about the motion that enchanted her— movement always tended to strike her, as a mage. Malcolm had always told her that as people whose power lay in motion and gesture, they were naturally drawn to the way that those around them chose their movements. Her father had always had a thing for rogues, telling them that their mother had been one long before they were born. Luca tended towards warriors— the brutish simplicity of their craft, the basic thumping and swinging married to the grace and agility that any weapon required, had driven her to distraction ever since her little brother had picked up a sword (angrily insisting that there was nothing <i>brutish</i> about it).</p><p>“Why are you staring at me?” he asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poetry in Motion

The Hanged Man was particularly dim and smoky, and heavy rains pounded against the thin glass windows that convulsed under the pressure. Luca half expected them to burst and casually sidled in next to Fenris at the card table. He was farthest from the wall and never sat with his back to the door which suited her just fine, although he did fix her with that irritable scowl of his every time she was within five feet of him (she’d counted, once, how long it took him to notice her— five feet was the average).

“Witch,” he greeted, without any real venom. It seemed every game got tiring after a while and he was growing weary of constantly waiting for her to start writhing and summoning abominations. It had been quite a few months since they’d first met and she’d been on her best behaviour since then— she liked to think that maybe he’d stopped _expecting_ it and graduated from _constant vigilance_ to _a wary eye._

“You got here early,” she commented, throwing back her soaked linen cloak. Across the room,  
Carver shook out his hair like a mabari— and her mabari next to him mimicked the motion. She frowned at the dog because while Carver certainly didn’t know better, Horse did. In contrast to both of them, Fenris was bone dry and had no visible cloak.

He grunted in response, lifting a bottle to his mouth. It was something about the motion that enchanted her— movement always tended to strike her, as a mage. Malcolm had always told her that as people whose power lay in motion and gesture, they were naturally drawn to the way that those around them chose their movements. Her father had always had a thing for rogues, telling them that their mother had been one long before they were born. Luca tended towards warriors— the brutish simplicity of their craft, the basic thumping and swinging married to the grace and agility that any weapon required, had driven her to distraction ever since her little brother had picked up a sword (angrily insisting that there was nothing _brutish_ about it).

“Why are you staring at me?” he asked, tilting the bottle away but not lowering it (tilting his wrist, not just shifting his fingers like she would have— larger gestures, tighter grip).

She half raised the bottle in front of her to her mouth, trying to seem casual but absolutely failing because she didn’t bother to stop watching him. “Because I love you,” she hummed against the smudged brown glass, flashing her eyes teasingly. He huffed and put the glass on the table (didn’t let it go but loosened his grip so he could pick idly at the label, his arm outstretched and his elbow resting against the table near her).

On her left, she felt her brother sit down. “You’re doing it again,” he said.

“Not to you though,” she defended, nudging him without turning her head.

“That’s true. Carry on then.” Luca snorted, watching Fenris’ posture change when Isabela and Rees took a seat across from them near the still-quivering window. _Warriors._

**Author's Note:**

> It would be remiss for me to not post [this link](http://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/advice/a3259/how-he-holds-his-drink/) to a cosmo article on how men holding their drinks means something depending on how they're standing. I did a weird amount of research into grips on drinks (I couldn't use my own because I have a stupid light grip on everything) and stumbled upon that and it was just like. Wow. So I put it in the fic, naturally. [My writing blog is here](http://nebulaad.tumblr.com), follow for more nonsensical fics and follow to prompt me to write more stupid silly fic.


End file.
